Born Depressed
by JKrlin
Summary: Sigma Squad, a Republic Commando team. Bev, the leading silent killer. Frog, the frustrated peace-keeping sniper. Double-Four, the unfunny medic. Rang, the pilot who speaks in cliches and one-liners. All trained by Dred Priest. None of them are quite right in the head. Hijinks ensue. (Sigma Squad originally created by Mandalore The Freedom. Extensively modified and adopted by me.)
1. Clever Boys

On the first day Dred Priest met the regiment of clones he was to train, he told them the simplest law of life.

"The strong survive. The weak die. That's the way the galaxy works. The day we forgot that, we became everyone's lackey."

And Dred was no one's lackey. Not the Kaminoan's, not Skirata's or Vau's, not that fool Gilamar's, and especially not Jango Fett's.

Fett can gallivant all he wants on how he singlehandedly destroyed the Death Watch. He should. As much of a nuisance the True Mandalorians were, they had been a worthy foe to combat and inevitably defeat. If anything, Vizsla should have attempted to coerce Fett into their way of thinking, just like his sister. Damn shame it was never meant to be. Fett was too hard set in his ways, perfectly fine in his position as the galaxy's best bounty hunter instead of the galaxy's finest warrior. A damn shame.

Still, his life choices aside, Jango Fett was no fool. He was able to recognize Dred Priest's genius and skills in the art of warfare. It didn't matter to him that some of the _Cuy'val Dar_ believed in the values of the ancient Crusaders. Fett needed hardened experts and military connoisseurs to train the greatest army the galaxy will ever see, and Dred was one among many that were too useful and readily disposed to ignore.

One of those connoisseurs happened to be a fine woman named Isabet Reau. Imparting the next generation of elite warriors the vast knowledge of the great Mandalorians was motivation enough for Dred Priest to spend the next odd years in isolation on Kamino. But Issy… made the stay all the more exhilarating.

Unfortunately, no matter how lenient Fett is with the _Cuy'val Dar_ 's choices of training exercises, or how in tune he is with his Mandalorian heritage, those of weaker heart will always interfere with the true way things must be done.

The Battle Circle Dred and Issy had hosted was brutal, yes. It had pit brother against brother, yes. It had costed several young boys' lives, yes, but Gilamar is too limited by his irrational sense of morality. What better way to teach the elite than by hands-on experience in a controlled environment? The clones who had won their matches have proven their willingness to follow orders. The ones with blood on their hands showed that they were ready to do anything to complete the mission, no matter the cost.

But Fett disagreed with Dred and agreed with Gilamar. Fett agreed with Gilamar quite vigorously.

He claims the Battle Circle, an ancient Mandalorian tradition, would be too costly in the long term. If too many clones died as they grew older, more children would have to be reproduced in those tanks, and the Kaminoans' estimates claim more assets would be lost than gained.

It was _shabla_ excuse. These clones, these _boys_ need to experience death and cruelty early in life and firsthand. That is what their entire lives will consist of, because that is how any _strong_ Mandalorian does war.

Even with a lame arm and a broken jaw, as Dred Priest entered his quarters and prepared for bed, he contemplated on how to circumvent Fett's latest "guidelines" on training the troops. Battle Circles may be out of the question, but there were always advanced interrogation techniques that can be simulated.

As Dred lay in bed and closed his eyes, he thought back to his first meeting with his batch of trainees. They were approximately three years old but bore the physical and mental capacity of six year olds. At first, their behavior nearly made Dred believe he was educating advanced androids painted with synthetic flesh instead of humans. They were completely unaffected when Dred spoke of the law of life, showing no intimidation or fear whatsoever.

It didn't speak much for their strength in character. It wasn't tried and deadened experience that was the cause of the clones' inability to show emotion. No, they were too young and sheltered for any such things. It was ignorance that was the fault of their character, and it was ignorance that Dred Priest decided was the first weakness to eradicate.

Dred Priest them told them stories of the many things he did while journeying through the galaxy. He told them of the wars he's fought in, of the glorious battles he departed victorious. He told them of the Mandalorians, how they were once the _jatnese be te jatnese_ , the best of the best, and how they will reclaim that title very soon with the help of the clone army. He showed them his armor, and he showed them the various trophies he had rightly earned and had brought with him to Kamino, from an old _jetii'kad_ to the bloodstained bandoleer he wears around him.

These stories caught the clones' curiosity. They emitted the innocence and hesitant excitement boys their age often show, wishing to know more about this alien and wizard entity before them.

And then Dred Priest told them of the first man he killed.

He was only fourteen at the time. His parents were on the fronts lines of some forgotten war while he was stationed in their command center. Prisoners, enemy soldiers were brought in. Dred's aunt saw thought it fit for him to assist in the interrogation of one of their prisoners. "The kid has to prove his worth at some point," he remembered her saying, and he was all the more thankful for her giving him the opportunity.

Dred recalled being debriefed on the prisoner. He was twice Dred's age and a soldier willing to die for his cause. He was seen often in the battlefield, killing many of Dred's clan and slipping away every time, until now.

Dred felt no anger or vengeance for his fallen clan members. The prisoner had proven his strength. There was respect to be had there.

Respect, and absolutely no mercy. A man of his ferocity had to be met with even greater ferocity if he is to break.

Dred did his aunt and parents proud that day. He did himself even prouder.

The clones were silent after Dred told his story, just as he intended. He left the room afterward, to let all the details of how he tortured a stranger's body, crippled the stranger's mind, and destroyed his soul, settle in.

The Battle Circle was established not long following their introduction.

Perhaps Dred can have his boys take turns interrogating one another, increasing the harshness of the techniques the more eager the interrogator was. Or perhaps when the interrogee becomes more steadfast? He will have to discuss this topic with Issy tomorrow.

He realized he wasn't merely dreaming of interrogation techniques when he felt his body shutter and his eyes snap open.

A light source hung overhead, bright and white and glaring into Dred's eyes. He was lying on his back, just as he was when he went to sleep. Only now he was flooded with a feeling of nakedness he gets when he is without his armor. He lay on something flat and bare, rough and faintly metallic, like an operating table stripped of its cushions.

Dred focused on the pain in his arm. He lifted his head to see both pairs of arms and legs outstretched, so his skull and limbs pointed in the same directions as the points on a star. His wrists and ankles were bound by knots on black columns standing nearby the table. It was sturdy workmanship, too, as he couldn't immediately break free. Restraints seemed to be placed over Dred's stomach, throat, and knees as well.

Shadows surrounded Dred, and shuffles and whispers echoed from those shadows.

"What do you want?" Dred shouted. This was no dream, so the only conceivable perpetrator that could have taken him so easily would be one of the _Cuy'val Dar_ , and considering that he was on an operating table…. "What game are you trying to play, Gilamar?" Dred had expected some sort of personal retribution from the doctor himself, but he never would have imagined –

The shuffles grew louder. Midgets stepped into light all around Dred. He could see their vague red garments, but what captured his attention were the masks they wore. The masks were the fronts of Republic Commando helmets, the lines where they were separated from the rest of the armament jagged and coarse. The bottom halves were excluded, as was the blue glow. As they were, the masks mimicked the Mandalorian black T-visor.

Vau had requested Fett to bring in painting materials for the clones to decorate their armor in Mandalorian tradition. Soon after, everyone seemed to be requesting for armor paints, and these paints were splattered on the masks of Dred's kidnappers. From the mild orange of a sunset to the dark blue of Kamino's ocean, each mask paraded a unique color, each and every single one of them silently taunting Dred.

"Soldiers," Dred hissed, glancing between each young costumed clone who came into his view, "what in _haran's_ name do you think you are doing, _di'kute_? Take off those _disgraceful_ masks and –"

One of them threw a punch across Dred's face. His jaw exploded a thousand fold, but it was a familiar sensation. What had shocked Dred into silence was the clone's audacity in laying a hand on his drill sergeant. All of these clones seemed to have gone mad, making Dred their prisoner while playing pretend as Mandalorians when they are so far from earning that name.

Then all of them started hitting Dred. They punched, kicked, slapped, elbowed – whatever and however they could, the clones were beating him. It wasn't just one arm and his jaw that were impaired and broken anymore. It was every limb, every joint, and every bone the clones – these _children_ intended to fracture and shatter.

Pain provided only a small comfort. It convinced him that this was not some sick dream or nightmare. The way the T-shaped visors enveloped Dred so it was the only thing in sight appeared too surreal to be reality, but it was, and two questions kept prodding his cranium all the while he was being beat into submission: How? And why?

The beating stopped. The masks still stared into his soul, but the beatings stopped. The clones took a collective step back as one of them climbed over Dred's body and kneeled over his chest.

This clone's mask was different from the others. His was painted a striking gold color along with distinct carvings sinking into the façade. Lines were drawn from the visor to the edges of the mask, the material between these lines looking worn and wrinkled.

This boy's mask was an amateurish yet strikingly accurate recreation of the long lost Mask of Mandalore.

The boy held a knife – one of Dred's combat knives. All Dred could do as he watched the boy raise the knife was wonder who it was behind the mask. Dred desperately wanted to know the boy's name before he died. The clone had to be one of his, and he had to have listened closely and intently to how Dred made his first kill to replicate the event so closely this night.

However, the knife never churned its way into Dred's sternum and dig into his heart as he expected. Instead, the rest of the room's lights turned on. Dred was right in his initial suspicions that he was put in a medbay, and all of the clone's heads turned to the door.

Isabet marched in, screaming obscenities and death threats harsher than the ones she used during training sessions. As the clones around Dred dispersed, they stood at attention as Fett entered. Gilamar came next. He and Dred stared at one another, one filled with utter confusion and the other too shocked to speak.

The next morning, Dred was explained that his torturers were members of his RC regiment. Fett was still figuring out how long they had been playing this little escapade, but he estimated that it must have taken at least some months to create the masks, schedule Dred's capture, and successfully restrain him on Gilamar's vacant operating table between training and the Battle Circle.

Gilamar treated Dred's latest injuries without word or question. Once he was done, he and Fett left to handle some other business of theirs. Dred was thankful that Isabet stayed with him for a while, but soon she too had to leave. She had her own troops to deal with, and she promised to discipline Dred's boys while he was recovering to the fullest extent possible that Fett would allow.

Before she left, Dred asked her lovely Issy who was it that was mastermind of this whole act. Who was the boy in the Mandalore's Mask?

"RC-1134," Isabet said. "It was that little piece of _osik_ who planned the whole thing."

Dred asked Isabet to avoid disciplining RC-1134 yet. He claimed that he wanted to take care of him personally. Isabet obliged before leaving.

1134\. That boy remembered everything, didn't he? He remembered each and every detail of Dred Priest's first kill. He remembered the designs of Mandalore's Mask when Dred was teaching them on their history. He remembered Dred's first words to him, how he must give a show of strength as he lets the weak die.

RC-1134. Dred remembered that number. It was the number of the first clone to kill a brother in the Battle Circle.

They were only five years old, physically ten, and already, Dred was more excited than he had been in decades.

The boy proved his worth. He deserved a name. An actual name, not some nonsensical number.

Bev. RC-1134 will be known as Bev. The _Mando'a_ word _bev_ translates to _spike_ , and he nearly spiked one of Dred's knives into Dred's chest. Seems appropriate.

Bev was going to go far. He was going to become one of the strongest, driven warriors the Mandalorians will have to offer. Dred Priest was going to make sure of that, whether the boy liked it are not.


	2. Ownership Rights

Shower, food, and sleep. Those were the only three things that Darman wanted after today's set of training, and today's set was _excruciatingly_ longer than anything they've done in a while.

Darman blamed those Null ARCs. They had done something to Tipoca City's power generators, so the rumors said. All of Kamino was without light or running water for a full 48 hours. The _Cuy'val Dar_ hadn't let that get in the way of training, Sergeant Skirata included, so every clone on the planet – RCs and white jobs alike – spent all that time in the dark training together.

Now that all systems were back up and running, a thankful moment of respite was allowed among the Commandoes. Theta Squad had put it to a vote and decided that a healthy dose of a shower, food, and sleep was in order.

Unfortunately, all of the showers were already packed with a line the length of an exogorth waiting for their turn. Considering the series of stink bombs – again, Darman blamed the volatile Nulls – that detonated throughout the blackout, Darman shouldn't be surprised. He just counted his squad lucky enough to have avoided being exposed to them. Plus, there was still hope to be found in the mess hall.

Darman, along with Jay and Taler, were completely onboard with the plan. One lone squad mate of theirs, Vin, was not.

"Please, _ner vode_ ," Vin begged his brothers, even as they dragged him down the blinding white corridor, "let's just skip dinner. We don't need to go to the mess, right? I'm sure we can catch up on some sleep instead."

Taler, the squad leader, shook his head. "We've been eating slugs and ration cubes for too long, _Vin'ika_. We need meat."

"Yeah," Jay agreed, "what's with you, anyway? Sergeant Apma's supposed to be serving some nerf steaks, your favorite."

Darman had a pretty good idea why Vin was acting so hysterical. "It's Bev, isn't it?" Darman said. "You're worried that he'll be there."

Vin nodded vehemently, grateful that someone finally understood his plight. "Exactly! Stoker said most of Dred Priest's boys are already down in the mess. I don't want to risk running into anyone in Sigma Squad. At all. For as long as I want my heart to keep beating."

Darman grimaced, lending a supporting hand on his brother's back. Vin's designated number is RC-1134, and apparently, Bev's number is also RC-1134. It was some glitch the Kaminoan record keepers never fixed, and Darman supposed they never did since Vin and Bev went by different names and were in different companies anyway. However, Bev never seemed to let it go. Whenever they were in the same room, Bev was always watching Vin, mute and unblinking. Vin claimed that Bev was even following him during their off-hours.

Everyone told Vin he was just being paranoid, but a part of Darman believed him. Darman remembered the rumors that had run rampant when Dred Priest was seen with bandages over his entire body, and when Isabet Reau had taken Priest's regiment under her wing for a time. Sergeant Kal and the other sergeants said to leave it alone, so the rumors stopped, but Darman had his own brand of paranoia that he couldn't let go, no matter how irrational it felt. His heart went out for Vin, and Darman was going to stand by his brother.

"Don't worry, Vin," Darman tried to reassure him, "we'll run interference if Sigma tries something."

"It's not Sigma that I'm worried about," Vin muttered lowly, still glancing over his shoulder every now and then. "They're all psychos, but Bev's the only one with some sort of vendetta against me. Seriously, just because we have the same number…."

Vin was kept between Jay and Darman, Taler at the front and leading the way. Theta Squad soon came to the line to the mess. Fortunately, it was significantly shorter than the line for the showers, with only two dozen or so men waiting patiently for their share of the nerf. Theta was about to trade pleasantries with the clones at the back of the line, realizing too late who exactly those two clones were.

"Guys, let's go." Vin pulled at his brothers desperately. "Go, now. We can –"

"RC-1134!" A Commando previously in deep conversation with his companion suddenly turned around to wave at Theta Squad. He was clad in purple armor from the neck down, his helmet hanging off his belt. His wide grin showed off his perfect white teeth. "It's been too long!"

It looked like he was about to try to force a group hug between himself and Theta, but Taler stepped in before he could. "Double-Four. A pleasure."

"Get them the _krif_ away from me," Vin whispered, holding in a frightened shriek. "If they're here, Bev can't be too far behind."

"Come now, brother Vin," Double-Four tried to placate, holding up his hands genially, "we're all brothers here. There's no need for hostility. Would a joke perhaps relieve you of your stress? It has been a long time since –"

"I don't want to hear your jokes," Vin continued to speak in his terrified squeak. He hunched his back, hiding behind Jay and Taler. "They're awful. Please."

"Wonderful!" Double-Four clapped his hands together. "Now, what do you get when you cross an owl with a bungee cord?"

"I don't care."

"My _shebs_." A burst of laughter resonated throughout the hall, solely from the Double-Four. The RCs in line ahead of Theta nudged slightly away from Double-Four's wailing, purposely ignoring whatever quandary was happening behind them.

Not a particular fan of absurdist humor, or any type of humor that came out of Double-Four's mouth, Darman maneuvered around him to approach the other member of Sigma Squad. While Darman was mostly out of armor, the Sigma member left an orange kneepad here and a gloved hand there on his person. His helmet was still on, the darkened visor staring absently into space with an extra layer of covering over his forehead. The navy blue Republic insignia was stamped on the extra coating.

"Rang," Darman greeted politely. Despite being clones, Rang appeared to tower over most people, even to some of the Kaminoans, but Darman wasn't intimidated. Double-Four did exhaust others with his jokes, so most took solace in finding a civil if quiet brother in Rang. "How's the shoulder?"

A mistimed explosion had caught Rang and a few others by surprise. No one was going to be missing any limbs or motor functions, but their soreness after the bacta treatment would probably prod for at least a week.

Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, Rang shrugged with his good shoulder. "I embrace the suck," Rang said, "the suck" referring to how all the joyous trials and tribulations that come with being a soldier suck.

For as long as Darman can remember, there has always been an unspoken separation between most of the Mandalorian-trained Commandoes and Dred Priest's lot. Darman wasn't quite sure what the reason was for the tension. Most people Darman asked said it was because of some cultural differences between their training sergeants, but he was still trying to understand the difference between _dar'manda_ and _aruetii_. Whatever _Mando'ad_ is supposed to mean, Darman will find out eventually.

Sigma Squad, despite their oddities, was one of the few teams that were undeterred by that separation, perfectly fine with mingling with the other companies. It wasn't uncommon to see members of Sigma playing Dejarik with someone from Veshok Squad, or playing fantasy bolo-ball with Yayax Squad, or even participating in Sergeant Apma and Sym's karaoke nights.

While plenty of squads made it a point to not socialize with Sigma, Darman wanted to understand why Sigma Squad was so careless of the invisible boundaries that were set up and why they constantly crossed them.

"Rang," Darman said again, with only the slightest hesitation, "can you be honest with me for a second?"

"Cat got your tongue?"

Darman suppressed a wince. Double-Four's language consisted of bad jokes. Rang's comprised of random phrases that mostly escaped Darman's understanding. What was even a cat? Wasn't that the name for a furry quadrupedal animal?

"I spread my wings," Rang spoke again, "and keep my promise." He waved his hand, motioning for Darman to say his piece.

"It's about… Bev." Darman was glad he had his helmet on. It hid the slow breath he took in. "Do you know why he's so fixated on him and Vin being numbered the same?"

Rang said nothing in return at first. He just stared forward, emitting no noise and allowing Double-Four's tale of a Kaminoan, a Mandalorian, and a Gungan walking into a bar grace Theta Squad's ears. Darman ignored the story for the most part. He had to focus on Rang and Rang alone. Rang was one of those kinds of people that can make Darman feel like soiling his trousers. Him, Bev, Walon Vau, Jango Fett – it was the voiceless stares that Darman sometimes sees them all give. They were like… predators, unnerving and hostile apex predators sizing up the rest of the food chain.

Darman was so absorbed by Rang's stare that he realized only a half-second later that Rang had turned his head to look away. Darman shook his head to reorient himself, following Rang's gaze. He looked to Double-Four – still yapping like a mad man – with Jay and Taler still standing guard, arms crossed and as unimpressed and disinterested as their armored body language would allow.

Vin wasn't hiding behind Jay and Taler anymore. There was only an unoccupied gap between them, the view of the white corridor filling the space.

"Where's Vin?" Darman asked aloud. Taler glanced around their surroundings before becoming a whirlwind of movement, frantically scanning the hall for any sign of their brother. Jay uncrossed his arms, letting them fall ungracefully to his sides. He looked between each end of the hall, back and forth, as rigid as an unoiled droid.

"… and so the Gungan said, 'You'sa are my dearest _mesh'la_ ," to the Kaminoan. Remember, they've all gotten some good drinks in them. So, the Mandalorian says –"

Jay rounded upon Double-Four, pinning him to the wall. "Shut up with the _kriffing_ story already! Where did Vin go, huh? _Copaani mirshmure'cye?_ "

"Calm now, brother." Double-Four waggled his finger in front of Jay's face. "At least buy me a drink fir –"

Taler was at Jay's side in an instant, shoving him and Double-Four apart. Taler gave Jay the same stare Rang gave Darman before turning to Double-Four. "Where. Did. He. Go."

"I'm sure brother Vin is perfectly fine! Now, about that Mandalorian…"

Double-Four wasn't going to give them any answers. It was always about his stupid _jokes_ with him. Darman wasn't going to have any of it.

"Rang," Darman said, bringing his voice as low and gravelly as possible. Their eyes met again, the two clones having hardly moved. "What happened to Vin?"

Darman expected to be met with silence again, but Rang answered, in the same tone as Darman's. "I spread my wings, and keep my promise." Rang reached into one of the compartments on his belt, retrieving a small data chit and offering it forward. "A drug deal's going on. Meet with the secret squirrels."

Drugs, squirrels – none of these strange words helped Darman. He quickly swiped the chit away from Rang. A series of digits were imprinted along the edge. Darman recognized the numbers.

"Remember this," Rang spoke again as Darman gave him one last look. "Don't cry over spilt milk."

Rang probably knew more about what happened with Vin, but there was no time to decipher his odd expressions. Darman muttered something akin to a thank-you. Paying no mind to the stares of the other clones in line, he jogged off at a brisk pace, determined to find his brother as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Taler and Jay caught up fast. "Where the hell are we going?" Jay shot, tapping his knuckles against Darman's arm.

"Storage room," he answered. "SR-10262004."

Darman didn't so much see Jay stiffen as he did feel it. Jay, the designated "troublemaker" of Theta Squad, probably knew plenty of the unspoken off-the-record deals and exchanges that occurred between clones and training sergeants. Ashamed as Darman is to admit it, he knew a thing or two about Kamino's black market as well, though it was only because he had a curiosity that had to be sated, and it was sated long before Darman could potentially get in too deep into all of the behind-the-scenes politics.

It was thanks to Darman's sparse knowledge of the black market that he recognized the data chit's numbers. The corresponding storage room was where one of the shady dealers set up shop. The skinny, grey-eyed Kaminoan had been helpful in explaining the basics of his business when Darman last encountered him. Hopefully, his generosity will not have waned since then.

"Why are we going to a storage room?" Taler asked, all three clones matching a vigorous gait. "Did Rang say Vin was taken there?"

"Not… in so many words, no."

Taler nodded, as if that was all he needed as reassurance that Darman knew what he was doing.

Their destination wasn't far. Theta arrived to the door quickly. Darman made some hand signs, prompting his brothers to prop their backs against the sides of the entrance. None of them were armed, but the storage room should be small, and it wouldn't take too much for them to overwhelm Bev if it came down to it.

Because it had to be Bev, and even if Darman wanted to understand the enigma that Bev was, Darman's brothers always came first.

With a silent breath, Darman hit the door controls. The section of the wall slid open.

The storage room had the same bland, white décor as the rest of Kamino. Random crates were stacked to the sides, forming an aisle from the door to the back wall. Darman could see the grey eyed Kaminoan – Lu Ten, that was his name – slouching his skinny body over a terminal in one corner. He caught Darman's stare and gave a wave before pointing a lanky finger to the opposite side of the room. Darman took a step forward, Jay and Taler shadowing him, to take a better look.

Three compact crates were arranged around one bigger container. Plates were arranged around the center crate, slices of nerf placed on each plate. Vin was stuffing his face full of his share of steak. Bev in all of his crimson red armored glory sat across from him, eating in a more reserved fashion with his helmet sitting beside the nerf.

On the last crate, Sigma Squad's sniper was leaning over his plate with a dejected frown. Frog was out of armor except for his backpack. He picked at the meat with a spork, giving the occasional tired glance between Vin and Bev. Frog looked up fully when Darman, Taler, and Jay's footsteps grew louder.

"1133!" Frog sputtered, nearly falling off his seat as he looked at Taler. Taler took the lead as Theta approached the makeshift table. "This – this isn't what it looks like."

"It looks like you're having dinner together," Jay commented.

"We are." Frog sat straighter, eyes wilder and wider than before. "But, we, ugh…"

Vin finally noticed his squad mates. " _Vode_! Look at this! Nerf! And we don't even have to wait in line!"

Taler gave Vin one of his "leader" looks, silencing Vin, before setting that look on Bev. "Why did you take Vin here?"

Bev did not acknowledge Taler's presence. He merely chewed his food, almost thoughtfully with his eyes closed. Frog reached forward, frantically waving his arms to keep Taler from getting within arm's reach of Bev. "We didn't hurt him! We didn't do anything to him!"

" _Why_ did you bring Vin here?" Taler trained his gaze now on Frog.

"Bev just – We just wanted to… talk with… him," Frog finished lamely.

A whistle caught everyone's attention. Typing nonstop on a datapad, Lu Ten approached the clones. "The job's done. As of this day forth, Bev's number is RC-1134. Vin's is RC-1134/3210. Now, where's my data chit?"

Bev wiped a napkin across his lips, pointing to the object dangling between Darman's fingers. Lu Ten swiped it off Darman's hands, passing him a quick smirk before heading back to his terminal.

"Wait, that was it?" Jay pointed an accusing finger at Bev. "You kidnapped Vin just so you could change his friggin' number? Are you serious? Were Rang and Double-Four a distraction? Was this entire thing planned?"

"No one got hurt!" Frog insisted, getting to his feet to block Jay from marching up to Bev. "Just don't – don't overreact, _vod_ , please."

Vin nodded supportively. "Frog's right. Nothing happened, Jay." When Taler looked at him again, Vin shied away.

Frog, Jay, Vin, and Taler all started talking at once, filling the room with their shouts. Darman flinched away, giving the four their space to argue. Arguments rarely worked out well for anyone in his experience. So, whatever indignation or bemusement Darman felt about this situation, he swamped it down, making his way to Bev.

Finished with his meal, Bev gave Darman a sidelong glance, one without hostility. It was only curious, much like Darman's own facial expression.

"Can I help you?" Bev asked.

"Yeah… Yeah, you can." Darman sighed, meeting Bev's eyes straight on. "You could have just told us directly in the beginning that you were bothered by Vin's number."

Bev shrugged, saying, "I gave him some nerf, his favorite," as if that would have answered all of Darman's questions.

"Why _are_ you so bothered by it, so much that you paid Lu Ten to change it in the Kaminoan computers?" And Lu Ten must have been the "secret squirrel" Rang had been referring to.

"RC-1134 is my number," Bev said, turning his head fully toward Darman. "I wanted it to make it official."

"It's just a number. You don't even go by it. Everyone calls you Bev, not 1134, except for the sergeants or Kaminoans."

"It is _my_ number," Bev repeated. " _Mine_."

"But _why_ does it matter so much to you?"

"Why were you so bothered when Frog and I brought Vin here?"

Darman's mouth quivered in confusion. "I was worried about him. No offence to you, but I wanted to make sure he wasn't hurt or anything."

"But why does he matter so much to you?"

The answer should have been obvious. "He's my brother." Darman frowned. Was Bev trying to equate what it means to be a brother to the possessiveness over a number?

"That is right. He is your brother. He is _yours_." Bev gestured vaguely to their quarreling siblings. "Theta Squad is yours. Your haircut is yours. The color of your armor is yours. Your name and your number are yours."

Darman thought Bev was starting to sound slightly more insane than Rang. At least Rang had somewhat of a sense of humor with his crazy moon speak. Bev seemed to take his own words too seriously. "What's your point?" Darman opted to ask. "You have your own armor and brothers for yourself, too, and you don't see me obsessing over my name and number."

"I am not you," Bev pointed out. "My name, my team, and my armor are all mine, but they are also the _only_ things that are mine. Everything else – the food I eat, the weapons I use, the bed I sleep in – they all belong to Kamino, or our training sergeants. The same goes for you, Darman. Our faces aren't even our own. Is it so wrong that I wanted to make sure my number was also mine and only mine?"

Yes, was Darman's first thought, Bev did come across as a little off for kidnapping Vin and treating him to a nerf steak dinner while bribing an unorthodox Kaminoan to modify Vin's RC number just so Bev could keep his number barely unique and one of a kind.

"Is that all?" Bev said when Darman neglected to respond.

"… Why are you and Sigma so friendly with the other companies?"

"You mean why is a squad trained by Dred Priest bothering to talk with a squad trained by Kal Skirata?"

Looked like Darman underestimated Bev's perceptiveness. "Your… behavior is a little odd. You have to admit that."

Bev shrugged. "Dred Priest says the same thing, but he thinks that my life and my squad are his to control. They are not. They are mine."

 _Mine_. Darman decided that Bev was certifiably psychotic, and when Theta Squad left the storage room, Darman hoped to never have to run into him again.

However, when Darman lost Theta Squad on Geonosis, when Darman thought Fi was never going to wake up, when Darman held his son in his arms, when he watched Niner fall off Shinarcan Bridge, and when he saw Etain be stuck down, held her close, and watched as the life in her eyes fade away, Darman remembered Bev's words.

It was years later until Darman understood the reasoning behind Bev's insanity, when Darman understood what it means to have something that is _his_.


	3. Food Fight

A key component in Mandalorian culture is the deep connection between family and military. It only takes a few words in _Mando'a_ for a Mandalorian to adopt someone. Mandalorian children are raised early on in the ways of war, self-defense, and comradery. It is not uncommon to see Mandalorian adolescents fighting side by side with their fathers and mothers, though the practice has been under more scrutiny over the centuries. While having children fight on battlefronts would be useful against cultures unused to such concepts, a child's novelty of going to war can run dry quickly, replaced by the stress of trying to stay alive.

The majority of the _Cuy'val Dar_ are Mandalorians, and many were inspired to treat their clone trainees as if they were their own children. Drill sergeants oversaw harsh military training with live rounds and scars abound while exposing moments of vulnerability and emotion to their students. They were all soldiers, but many were also increasingly evolving into something more.

Not every Mandalorian training sergeant extended fatherly and motherly hands, however. Though bonds and loyalties were solidified, those who had no need for family established mutual trust and respect out of necessity. These Mandalorians kept an arm's length away from those troops but remained close enough to step in when needed.

Still, the prospect of family was too alluring for some of the more zealous clones, even when their sergeants made it obvious they were not going to outright adopt new children any time soon.

Republic Commando teams Ender Squad and Delta Squad were perfect examples.

Both squads' training sergeants were known to be the harshest of the _Cuy'val Dar_. They gave no quarter and they were not asked any quarter. The clones developed a connection deeper than they realized with their sergeants, perhaps mistaking indoctrination and worship as love and respect.

Dred Priest and Walon Vau had not reciprocated their respective squads' feelings, however, no matter how discreet or enthusiastic their squads acted at times.

Or, at least, this was all the information Frog managed to garner out of Double-Four between all of the rambling and digressions.

"And so," Double-Four concluded, "boys like Delta and Ender are forever enslaved to a dream that they know in their hearts… will never come true."

"Uh… alright, but, um, why are they arm wrestling?"

"That's the punchline." Double-Four doubled over in laughter – a forced movement, of course, since his torso sort of jerked forward then back – and raised his drink into the air. "Zing!" He downed the rest of it before going back to eating his food.

Frog and Double-Four were having their lunch in one of Tipoca City's many long, wide cafeterias. The one the pair was currently in was specially reserved for RCs. About half of the tables were fully occupied, and more clones were slowly trickling in.

Sigma Squad sat at the edge of one table. Frog and Double-Four were side-by-side, across from Bev and Rang. They were all silently enjoying their meals, but Frog couldn't keep himself from glancing at the next table over. Ender Squad and Delta Squad had long since finished their food. They had put back on their buckets and were now taking turns in an arm-wrestling tournament, hollering and cheering almost as loud as an audience at a musical concert. Frog should know. He's seen some vids about concerts.

"Come on, Doran," Scorch taunted his opponent, their ungloved fists locked tightly. "I know you can do better than this. We all know Issy Reau made sure you've had plenty of practice with your hands." Despite the taunt, Scorch was struggling equally as much as Doran.

Doran with his purple highlights had his other fist clenched as if ready to throw a punch. "Keep talking, _mir'osik_. Just keep talking."

Double-Four nudged Frog. "You see that, brother Frog? Slaves to a dream. Damn, damn, _damn_ shame."

"So, what, is this another sergeant-loyalty dispute?" These disputes usually occurred between squads who were trained by Mandalorians and squads who were trained by _aruetii_. It was rarer for the rivaling squads to both be trained by Mandalorians.

"Of course." Double-Four conspiratorially glanced back at the arm-wrestling match before leaning closer to Frog to whisper, "I was hoping for someone to sucker punch someone by now. I guess the next best thing I can hope for is someone gagging on this _fierfek_ food, eh?" He chuckled quietly before giving Frog his space.

Double-Four was smiling to himself, probably thinking through more silly jokes to tell later. When Rang finished up the last of his meal, he crossed his arms and shut his eyes to take a quick nap. Bev was still slowly and meticulously eating his food, one half-spoonful at a time. Frog was the only one left in Sigma Squad interested in the tussle between Doran and Scorch.

Ender and Sigma might both be in the regiment under Dred Priest, but Frog was secretly rooting for Scorch to win. Delta was a decent enough bunch, despite the whole _jatnese be te jatnese_ attitude. Plus, they usually stuck to themselves and stayed out of trouble. Ender Squad, in contrast, were not… well… not… people Frog would usually prefer to associate himself with.

Finally, Doran smashed Scorch's hand against the tabletop. Ender Squad started jumping in excited celebration, bumping their chests and clasping each other's palms. Scorch was slouched, his body twitching as he tried to catch his breath. Fixer and Boss – seriously, Frog privately thought and would never say aloud, what kind of name is _Boss_ – patted Scorch's back. Sev, however, was staring at Doran the same way – well, the same way Bev stared at people sometimes.

Doran caught on fast. "There something you want to say, _ner vod_?" He stepped forward, backed by his squad. "You want a rematch? My other hand's still good for another round."

Boss had a hand on Sev's shoulder in an instant. "Leave it alone," Delta's default leader said. "Leave it. You know what Vau said."

Sev nodded slowly, never keeping his eyes off Doran. "Yeah. I know what he said, and at least _we_ follow orders."

Frog could see it now. Doran was going to scoff, then he was going to throw out his arm. Sev would block or dodge and counter, Boss would pull Sev away, their squads would get pulled into it, and then it's going to be a gigantic mess as everyone else in the room joined the fray. It wouldn't be the first time. Frog looked back to his squad. They were as lackadaisical as could be, but Frog saw all the other nearby commandoes whispering and nodding toward Ender and Delta. They could feel the tension, too, and they were all ready and itching for a fight.

Their Mandalorian training sergeants can be beyond harsh, Priest and Vau especially. They would practically torture their regiments as punishment for getting into _another_ brawl, and those regiments hardly cared.

Except for Frog, it seemed. So, Frog dashed between Sev and Doran. He wanted to act as a physical barrier, but he knew he didn't look very intimidating; Frog's constipated look had nothing on the cold blue stare of Delta's and Ender's visors, and Frog kept fidgeting while the others were tall and unmoving.

When no one said anything for a few tense seconds, Frog tried to speak up, but his tongue twisted itself inside his own mouth. He could not say a thing as he helplessly looked between his hostile brothers.

"Frog," Doran said flatly, "get out of the way."

Finally, Frog found his voice. "But –"

"This doesn't concern you. Don't make me make Bovine manhandle you." Doran's respective squad mate nodded in confirmation.

"But –"

Sev cut in. "Run along, little man. The big boys have business to discuss."

 _Little man_. Frog couldn't exactly glare menacingly, so he let his lips frown. Sev must have been watching too many vids, the kind with big macho muscly men firing machine guns that never ran out of ammo, to know that phrase. Frog should know. He's been watching too many of them himself.

"That's right," Doran said with a hidden smirk behind his helmet, " _business_ , we've got _business_ to discuss, but maybe we should talk it over in private?" He motioned vaguely toward one of the exit doors.

Now, Frog was ready to step away. If Ender and Delta wailed on each other in private, then only they would be punished. The rest of Priest's squads, including Sigma, should remain safe and secure with only the usual amount of brutality.

But – but then Frog saw Scorch get up from his seat and crack his knuckles. Frog could see the quiet anger in his little motions as he picked up his forgotten food tray. Scorch was just about ready to toss it at Doran. His target will be blinded long enough for Scorch or Sev to strike. Then the fight will ignite.

And after the fight, everyone was going to lose, especially everyone under the Priest's authority, because if one of his RCs falls out of line, then _all_ of his RCs fall out of line, so all of them lose.

Frog didn't know how many more times he can handle Priest's kind of reward for _losing_.

So, before Scorch started something that was probably going to get someone killed, Frog extended his arms. He grabbed Sev and Doran by the backs of their helmets. In one swift movement, Frog pulled their heads down and against his own.

Sev and Doran were only momentarily stunned. They were fully armored and wouldn't suffer any lasting damage. Frog, on the other hand, staggered clumsily backwards as he clutched the sides of his temple. He could hear a ringing, pulsating in tandem with the ache echoing inside his forehead. It felt like his brain was going to split open and bleed out through his brow.

Frog fell into someone's arms. "Wow! A good, old fashioned three-way Keldabe kiss!" Frog heard Double-Four exclaim. Frog's brother helped support him on his feet. "That was one hell of a brainstorm, huh Frog? Oh, you were always such a kidder, _Frog'ika_."

Though Frog's head was on fire, he managed to open his eyes to a hazy image of Bev and Rang standing where Frog once was. Bev faced Delta and Rang was in front of Ender.

RC squad leaders usually established "understandings" with each other to prevent constant full blown-out fights between their specific squads. Bev was giving one of his "understanding" looks to Delta. Boss stepped between Sev and Scorch to meet Bev's vacant gaze head-on. Bev nodded slowly in the orange-colored soldier's direction.

"What are you doing, Boss?" Bev asked.

Boss shrugged. "I'm just a simple man, trying to make my way in the universe."

"What is your squad doing?"

"Stress relief." As Frog's vision continued to clear, he could see Fixer pull Sev and Scorch slightly back while Boss maintained Bev's attention. "They were just pushing their luck, nothing else."

"They hurt Frog."

"Worried about losing your _vod'ika_? Don't be. He'll live."

"Keep control over your squad."

"If you insist." Boss held up his palms in a "I surrender" motion. "Maybe you should take care of things in your own regiment before complaining about my squad."

Bev didn't say anything back. He only stared. Eventually, Boss backed away and shrugged again.

"Now you're just being mean," Boss said with an air of finality. He turned and herded Delta toward one of the exits.

Doran was too busy in a one-sided argument with Rang to notice Delta's departure until it was too late. "Hey, where you going Delta? I thought we were going to have ourselves a rematch?"

"Remember," Rang said, "always to pillage before you burn, Doran."

"What in the _haran_ are you saying, Rang? Just get out of my way." Doran moved to shove Rang aside with his shoulder, but Rang pushed him back. Doran stumbled against his squad mates.

"I hope you brought your wallets, boys," Rang said, "because the rent in _haran_ pays in advance."

For a second, Frog was worried Rang was going to start another fight. Luckily, or maybe unluckily, Bev approached Doran and helped bring him to his feet.

"Hey, it isn't my fault Frog went and hurt himself," Doran defended himself to Bev. "He should've minded his own business."

"I do not care," Bev replied with that same old stare. "You are _not_ making Dred Priest any prouder by fighting Delta."

Doran scoffed. "Yeah, sure. Shows what you know, _aruetii_."

Frog tensed, he felt Double-Four tense, and he watched Rang tense, but Bev's countenance did not wavered. "Walon Vau keeps to himself. Dred Priest will hardly care what you do to Walon Vau's squads. You should be fighting one of Mij Gilamar's squads if you want to make Dred Priest proud."

Bev had a point. Priest was a _shabuir_ that managed to convert over three quarters of his RCs into his loyal, maniacal followers. That was no secret. It was even less of a secret that he was hated by practically every other _Cuy'val Dar_ member on the planet. Walon Vau's distaste was expressed in subtle comments and silent murmurings about "the Death Watch" that became ripe for rumors, yet Vau's dislike was small potatoes compared to the obvious rivalry between Priest and Gilamar.

Frog was pretty sure that was how you were supposed to use the term "small potatoes." If he finds the time, he'll have to ask Rang later.

"Why limit ourselves?" Doran asked with a flourish. "Gilamar's lackeys will get what's coming to them eventually. If any of Vau's boys can't take us on, that's on them."

Bev opened his mouth to say something, but closed it and shook his head to and fro instead. Frog wasn't sure if it was disappointment or, whatever. "I do not care. Do what you want. Make sure my squad stays out of it."

Doran's shoulders started sagging. That meant he was smirking beneath the helmet. "Hey, you do your thing, and we'll do ours. That's what we've always done, haven't we?"

"My squad stays out of it," Bev repeated.

"It was Frog's fault for getting hurt, but yeah, sure. Sigma keeps their solo act. Have fun." Doran gave a whistle, signaling his squad, and Ender made their exit.

"No hard feelings!" Rang called after them.

"No hard feelings!" Doran called back, throwing Rang a rude hand sign over his shoulder. Doran must have been watching a _lot_ of those macho movies, too, to know that hand sign.

Once Ender Squad left the room, Frog realized Sigma was the last squad left awkwardly standing in the sea of clones. The other RCs were seated and staring at them. Slowly, they turned their attention back to their meals and side conversations. Frog prodded his forehead with a cautious finger. He could feel the bruises. The pain was easing away in that forget-about-the-pain-there-are-more-important-things-going-on-at-the-moment kind of way. Bev was staring at Frog now, and his stares took priority over Frog's own miseries.

"Double-Four," Bev said, "put Frog in medical."

"You sure?" Double-Four asked. He was Sigma Squad's designated medic. "I can probably fix him up right now, make him as good as a brand new, mint condition, shiny –"

"Put Frog in medical. Visit Mij Gilamar, if you want." Double-Four perked up at that. He had struck his own understanding with Gilamar, even with the whole Priest-Gilamar conflict. "Make sure Frog does not have a lasting concussion. He has to be ready for the next training session."

There was drool flowing down Frog's chin. Frog wiped it away, intentionally avoiding Bev's eyes, as Double-Four ushered him into the Kaminoan hallways.

"I wish you told me you were going to head-butt them, Frog," Double-Four told his brother. "I made an entire list of jokes about the Keldabe kiss. I could of used them, but you just had to go do it before I could get ready."

"Sorry, Double-Four," Frog groaned, leaning more against him, "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's all good. I heard Scorch say that one thing about Doran's hands. I can use that! I'll have to pay Scorch a visit later…."

Frog's mind drifted as he started to lose consciousness. He wanted to shut his eyes and never have to open them again. Today's stress was just too much for him.

Dred Priest's training was one thing, but Bev's stares were a whole other ball game.


	4. Those Magic Changes

RC-3232 stood near the edge of a circular landing platform. Varying shades of blue filled his vision. Kamino's drizzling rain pattered against the surface of his visor. He watched the waves of the ocean below whirl against and around the platform's support pillar. Blaster bolts whizzed pass the sides of his head and continued on toward the dark, stormy skyline.

The RC soon felt a bolt hit his left shoulder blade. Another one hit the back of his helmet. It was a training blaster being used, so the hits only left a faint stinging effect on the Katarn armor plating.

The flurry of blaster fired stopped after that last shot. Faint footsteps slowly grew louder until they stopped directly behind 3232. What felt like the end of a rifle barrel poked at his backside. The clone turned around. A younger clone in a navy blue tunic and a poncho with a darkened forest green color was smirking up at the RC. The rifle in the younger clone's hands looked almost as long as twice his height.

"I won," the brown-eyed boy said. He nudged his head toward the mound of crates stacked on the other side of the landing platform. More pint-sized clone juniors in tunics and ponchos were sitting atop the pile. They were chatting, some in hushed whispers and some in vigorous excitement. "Thanks for the help, Rang."

"We must shame them into sending help," Rang said gazed at the clone cadets. They were staring with looks of awe and admiration. Before long, they all began jumping off the boxes and jogged toward the two older clones. The cadets started talking all at once.

"How did you do that? How can you even aim in this weather?"

"We can't even fire that accurately in the simulations!"

"Your shot was even better than Ace's. No wonder you're Jango Fett's son."

Boba nodded his head in self-satisfaction. He was reveling in the praise and attention from the younger clones. "I am the best. Always will be."

One cadet asked, "I thought your dad was supposed to be the best?"

A scowl took shape on Boba's face. Before he could say something to the cadet, Rang laid a hand on Boba and gave a shake. "I'm beginning to see a lot of fishmen," Rang said.

The Fett directed his frown on Rang. The Commando only stared blankly back at Boba's glare. "I can never understand what you're trying to say," Boba muttered in an almost bitter tone.

"One step forward, two steps back."

"Why do you talk like that?"

Rang shrugged his shoulders. "These words are knives and often leave scars."

The clone cadet conglomerate started chatting it up again.

"Come on, Boba. Rang's an RC. You shouldn't be talking to him like that."

"He's right. _Cuy'val Dar_ train RCs. Have you seen the stuff those guys go through during training? That takes guts."

"You haven't even gone through the same training as us cadets, have you Boba? Jango might have taught you stuff, but you're always just staying up in your special apartment playing with dolls and toys. What do you really know about soldiering?"

"Yeah, show Mister Rang some respect."

The cadets were crowding around Boba now instead of groveling before him. Becoming overwhelmed by the onslaught of scrutiny, Boba backed up a step and hit Rang's stomach. Rang kept his hand on the boy's shoulder. Ignoring Boba's nervous stuttering and the cadets' continuing accusations, Rang snatched the blaster rifle with his free hand and aimed down the sight on the clone that called him "Mister Rang."

Stunned silence rained down on the mob. The cadet with the blaster trained on him had his eyes go wide and his arms raised high. "What! Why are you pointing that at me? What did I do wrong?"

"Don't call me sir," Rang told the terrified clone. "I work for a living."

"But, but I didn't call you sir, Mister Rang."

Rang pulled the trigger. The ensuing blaster bolt flew over the cadets' heads and harmlessly left a burnt mark on the ground, just as he intended. The crowd still ducked or crouched, however, ready to sprint away if Rang fired again. Boba tried to shimmy out of Rang's hold but couldn't break loose from the strong grip.

"The best armor is staying out of gunfire."

Rang fired more mostly harmless shots. The clone cadets broke apart from their mob and scattered. They ran up a staircase onto another landing platform and retreated toward an entrance into one of Tipoca City's many buildings, away from the rain and gunfire.

Once the last cadet disappeared, Rang finally let Boba shake free from his grasp. Boba gave the older clone the stink eye. "You didn't have to do that. I could have handled them."

Rang lowered the rifle and offered it to Boba. "I don't hate you, boy. I just want to save you while there's still something left to save."

"I don't know what you mean by that. Whatever." Boba took the blaster and creased a finger along the magazine. He removed it and examined the blaster charge indicator. Boba's frown grew even more pronounced. "I told you that I wanted a real blaster, not one of the training ones."

"You can have my gun when you pry it from my paranoid, mentally disturbed, physically-abusive, cold, dead hand."

Boba didn't lose his sour scowl. Instead, unsure of Rang's words, he inched a step or two away from him.

The telltale sounds of an approaching ship briefly blotted out the rumble of the rain. Rang and Boba looked to see Slave I descending from the skies and moving to settle on the landing platform.

" _Shab_ ," Boba said under his breath. "He was supposed to get here later, not now."

The pair waited patiently as the ship slowed and rested itself on the platform. The exit ramp opened up. Helmeted and in full armor, Jango Fett walked out and, without pause, lifted the blaster out of his son's hands and ruffled his son's hair. "Boba," Jango greeted, "what are you doing out here?"

"Practicing my aim," Boba said eagerly. "It's been forever since you've brought me with you on a hunt or anything like that."

"I don't take you with me to have fun," Jango scolded as he looked over the blaster rifle. "You come with me to learn." Boba became downcast at his father's response. However, the smile renewed itself when Jango added, "Most of the time." Jango faced Rang, who met the perusing glance head-on. "Who is this?"

"RC-3232," Boba answered. "He calls himself Rang. Taun We doesn't let me get access to any of the blasters, so I asked him to help me get one."

"3232," Jango repeated, mostly to himself. "You're one of Dred Priest's boys."

"Whatever happens, happens," Rang said with a nod.

Jango stared for a short while before facing Boba again. "What did Rang ask in return for getting you the blaster, Boba?"

"One of those cakes you keep bringing for Skirata," Boba answered. Some of his spiteful attitude returned as he lowered his gaze to the floor. Rumor had it that the Nulls were bullying Boba again, Rang recalled from Double-Four's latest gossip gathering report. " _Uj'alayi_ , the sweet and sticky cake you bring in those small boxes."

Jango looked at Rang again. Still talking to Boba, Jango said, "Go get one of those cakes. They're in the second storage unit, under the spare med kits." Boba nodded profusely and dashed into Slave I. Once Boba was out of earshot, Jango spoke again, to Rang. "This is a one-time arrangement. Do not approach Boba again for any more deals. Next time, go ask one of your training sergeants."

With a straightened back and a sharp salute, Rang asserted, "I'm starting with the man in the mirror."

Boba hopped out of the ship and held up a light, metallic box to Rang. "Here you go," Boba smiled at him with a hint of smugness. "A deal's a deal, right?"

"I have taught you well, grasshopper."

"Go back inside the ship, _Bob'ika_ ," Jango interrupted, pushing Boba up the exit ramp. With some reluctance, Boba did as he was told. Jango followed after him, but not before giving Rang one last glance. "Repeat after me: Now you're just somebody that I used to know."

Rang titled his head in curiosity. "Now you're just somebody that I used to know."

"Translation: stay away from Boba. If any other RCs try to swindle Boba with favors, tell them the same thing." Jango turned his back to Rang and strolled into his ship. "I suppose you get to have your cake and eat it, too."

Rang like the ring to that last statement. He committed it and Jango's other statement to memory for later use.

With the cake in its container kept under his arm, Rang made his way across the landing platforms. The rain pressed on, harder and more forceful as time passed, but Rang was not at all undeterred. As one of his favorite phrases went, he was a man with a mission.

Eventually, Rang found his way to the opposite side of Tipoca City. He stopped in front of one of the smaller buildings in the city, smaller by Kaminoan standards, at least. Most of Kamino's infrastructure consisted of large, towering, and massive edifices that served as small cities in their own right. The particular building Rang entered was intentionally constructed to be of lesser stature than the other ones.

Some of the more agricultural-minded _Cuy'val Dar_ disliked the constant storms and lack of natural land formations on Kamino. So, after years of haggling and smooth-talking, the Kaminoans approved the construction of a communal garden. The malformed and defective clones, the insubordinate and rebellious clones, and the curious and bored clones were often assigned jobs to help maintain the variety of multicolored plant life and crops imported from off-planet.

Rang entered one room that was the about the size of a standard Venator-class Star Destroyer hangar. Scattered across the ceiling were spots of synthetic yellow light. Instead of rows of fighters with pilots and droids calibrating nav computers, rows of young oaks and greenery were being tended by clones dressed in overalls and work gloves. A few clones were spreading mulch around eight foot tall trees with rakes while others crouched beside potted plants to collect colorful fruits.

Ambling pass his hard-at-work brothers, Rang arrived at the center of garden. There was a Veshok tree, a large evergreen native to the planet Mandalore, towering and flourishing in the middle of everything. Around the base of the Veshok lay a flower bed ripe with blossoms and their graceful, purple petals. Those flowers fluttered in the soft, artificial breeze.

If Rang hadn't already selected the exact flower he wanted to retrieve from the flower bed, he might have gotten lost in merely staring at the fluttering and vibrant picks. As it was, he plucked the royal violet flower by its stem. Rang turned his back to the bed and began to follow the dirt trail toward the exit.

"Hey, you!" a clone worker yelled as he caught Rang by the shoulder. Rang halted and twisted his head to see the white job – he was probably a white job with the lack of facial scars – glowering at him. "You can't just pick flowers off from the garden. Do you have proof of appropriation? Where's your training sergeant?"

Usually, clones had to go through clerk droids to receive a pass card if they wanted to personally sample any of the communal garden's fruits on their own time. It was either that or a _Cuy'val Dar_ overseeing a training session involving the garden's diverse if compact environments.

The clerk droids took too long processing appropriation requests than for Rang's liking, and there was no way Sergeant Priest was going to schedule a trip into the gardens any time soon.

"My invitation must have been lost in the mail," Rang replied.

"Then why are you taking a flower without a new pass?"

Oh. The white job wasn't immediately put off by Rang's statement. Odd. "Basketballs don't hold grudges."

"Neither will I, so long as you return that flower." The clone held up his gloved hand expectedly.

Rang jiggled the cake container under his arm. "I accept your offer, on one condition."

The look on the white job's face reminded Rang of what Frog looked like when Frog became too exasperated and impatient with Double-Four's jokes. "And what's this condition?"

The white job's eyes grew more suspicious, and with Rang's internal clock ticking and ticking, Rang forwent the pleasantries and thrust his forehead forward. The white job was down in a blink. His unconscious body fell flat against a patch of yellowy, grainy grass.

"Levet!" A trio of clone workers appeared by the white job's side. Two of them tried to resuscitate him while the third, armed with a pitchfork of some kind, stood before Rang. "Just – Just take the flower! No one else has to get hurt, alright?"

Some of Rang's brothers might complain about the reputation preceding Sergeant Priest's Commando regiment, but it sure was useful sometimes.

"If it doesn't kill you, it's sure to leave a horrible scar," were Rang's parting words as he left the meat cans to care for their fallen brother.

Rang's final destination wasn't far. It was in another part of the communal garden building. According to Rang's calculations, his target audience will be situated in a private room with a good view of the ocean. They should be somewhere in the upper levels, either inside or not far from the custom apartments a few of the _Cuy'val Dar_ regularly resided in.

At the top floor, Rang stopped in the middle of a corridor. The door to the left of him was shut, but he could hear the vague sound of voices conversing. Either Rang was starting to exhibit symptoms of clone madness, or the constructions standards for the communal garden building were lower than Rang anticipated if he could even faintly overhear conversations through the walls.

Setting down the cake and gently placing the flower on top of the container, Rang pulled out a wire from his backpack. He set up a connection between the panel beside the door and the radio on his helmet. Playing with the holographic buttons on the panel, Rang could soon hear the voices much more clearly.

"… more integration and transfers between regiments," a male voice was speaking. "I fear we are all growing too complacent on this planet. The boys grow fast, but they are still young boys. Immaturity, naivety, ignorance; all these things still fester within them. We must halt these faults from spreading further before the troops finally see a real battlefield."

"You've been asking a lot of favors from Fett," said a female voice that sent _chills_ down Rang's spine. "This garden, Outer-Rim weapons for live ammo training – hell, even these drinks you saved for tonight. After all that, I don't think you have enough clout left with him to get this idea of yours off the ground."

"I can be very persuasive when I want to be."

A scoff. "Don't push your luck. Besides, it's like you said, they're _boys_. Kids, even if they age twice as fast. You still have time to teach them right."

"It's not only my boys. Yours, Reau's, Skirata's, Jango's Alpha ARC bunch, and even the _aruetii_ -trained ones. They are _all_ brothers, regardless of regimental lines and whether they show it or know it or not."

"I'm not saying your idea isn't impossible. It's just highly improbable to get approved."

"Brotherhood, stamina, loyalty – these values have to be emphasized and ingrained in all of them before anything else."

"That's the catch, Apma. Not every training sergeant shares the same values as you." A sigh. "I'm sorry, but I just don't see you getting enough people to back you up on this."

A chuckle. "I convinced you well enough, didn't I?"

A snort. "Business before pleasure, alright? I'm done with business right now. Where's the desert?"

Business before pleasure. That was a good phrase. It was double the worth of remembering, too, since it was _her_ that first spoke the phrase. Oh, what Rang would do to hear her say more and more and more memorable phrases for him to use…

But, like she had said, business before pleasure. Rang tore the wire connecting his helmet to the door panel off and stashed it away. He grabbed his flower and cake, pressed another button on the panel, and stepped pass the sliding doors into the room.

The voices' owners sat across from each other over a small dining table. Their helmets were placed at the edge of the table alongside plates holding bits of leftover food. Beside the little dining area was a wide window that stretched from the ground to the ceiling. The thunderous rain and erratic ocean waves continued to sway harder and harder. B'arin Apma was in his black and brown Mandalorian armor, stroking his chin strip. Ibi'tuur Wren in her striking golden armor and her wavy, shoulder-length silver hair was taking a swig from her bottled drink.

The sergeants watched as Rang approached. From his curved grin, Sergeant Apma seemed to recognize Rang, but Sergeant Wren was still scrutinizing Rang's armored body and helmeted face.

"You don't sweat much for a woman your size," Rang greeted as he improvised a salute while he had his arms full.

"Ah," Apma said, fully identifying the familiar clone. "He isn't trying to insult you, Ibi'tuur." Sergeant Wren had an eyebrow pulled higher than the other one. "This is Rang. This is simply the way he communicates."

"With insults?" Wren questioned flatly. Rang shook his head.

"My touch," Rang said as he offered his flower to Sergeant Wren, "is black and poisonous."

"I doubt it is Rang's intention to actually poison you, either," Apma added quickly. Wren was giving the flower and Rang a look of askance. "Admittedly, Rang is an odd one."

"One of your boys?" Wren asked.

"I wish, but unfortunately, no. Rang is a member of Sigma Squad, and by extension a trainee under Dred Priest's tutelage."

"The Death Watch lover?" Rang fought the urge to collapse at Sergeant Wren's distasteful tone. She was only referring to Rang's training sergeant and not Rang himself, nothing more. "And you're saying Rang isn't trying to kill me, or do anything of that nature?"

"If I were to hazard a guess…" Apma drifted off to give a shrug. "I'd take the flower. I recognize it from one of the gardens. It's probably a simple gift from him to you."

"Why would a clone from Priest's batch want to give me a flower?"

Rang, still offering up his first present, cleared his throat. "Too many war wounds and not enough wars," he said as he held the flower closer to Sergeant Wren. "I don't know where you're going, but do you got room for more troubled soul?"

Wren glanced at the flower, to Rang, to Apma, to Rang, to the flower, and then back to Rang. Rang could feel his heart skip a few beats. These few tense seconds she took to stare at Rang and the flower felt like they lasted centuries.

Thankfully, Sergeant Wren soon carefully clasped her fingers around the flower. She removed it from Rang's hand and gave the flower a whiff. "A sweet, fragrant scent. It's nice… How did you know that I liked these kinds of flowers?"

"Whoever said the pen is mightier than the sword obviously never encountered automatic weapons."

Wren's brow was raised slightly higher. "Have you been eavesdropping on my training sessions with my RCs?"

Wanting to be honest, Rang nodded his head. At least forty-five percent of the phrases he keeps on his list originated from the lectures he's heard Sergeant Wren give to her troops. "Lie in the grass next to the mausoleum."

"A secret admirer," Apma deduced, sniggering to himself. "How flattering, isn't it, Ibi?"

Ibi. Sergeant Apma called Sergeant Wren. Rang wanted to call her Ibi as well, but discipline held him back from doing so.

"I guess I've had worse," Wren admitted. Her eyes were still scanning and judging Rang from top to bottom. "What's in the box?"

Rang definitely remembers those two phrases from Sergeant Wren's previous talks with her trainees. "I… am the solution." Rang opened the container to reveal the _uj'alayi_. "If you help me build it, I will come."

Sergeant Wren perked up at the sight of the desert Rang had dutifully delivered. " _Uj_ cake, huh? How'd you know that's my favorite?" Rang had been watching Sergeant Wren haggle Sergeant Skirata out of some of his _uj'alayi_ stash in the past. Rang merely took the initiative and cut off the extra middle man.

"A good magician never reveals his secrets," Rang said, placing the cake on the table. Apma continued to observe with a grin. Sergeant Wren twirled a spoon in her hand and began slicing a piece of cake for herself.

"They say the fastest way to a man's heart is through his stomach," Wren said as she bit into her cake slice. "What those people forget is that gals like me get _cravings_." Rang watched as the sergeant savored the taste of the _uj_ cake. "But I guess you'd know all about that, Rang was it? You did your homework, didn't you?"

"You're the right kind of sinner to release my inner fantasy," Rang affirmed. That may have been the wrong thing to say, however, as Sergeant Wren gagged and nearly choked before she swallowed the pieces of cake in her throat.

"Perhaps you're being a bit too forward, Rang," Apma said while Wren coughed into a napkin. "You should take your time with these kinds of things. You might scare Ibi off otherwise."

But Rang wanted to spend more time with Sergeant Wren as soon as she would allow it. It was Sergeant Priest that told him, "No one gives us the right. We take it," and Rang was going to take what he wanted one way or another.

"Annie, are you okay?" Rang asked Sergeant Wren. "Will you tell us that you're okay?" He moved to pat Wren's backside to help alleviate her pain, but she held up a hand to keep him from getting any closer.

"S'all good," Sergeant Wren spat out after giving a burp. "You just caught me off guard, is all. Thanks for the cake, and the flower. I'm… flattered." She gave Rang a smile. Even if it was a smile partly made of forced politeness, it was the first time he has seen a smile on her gorgeous face. Rang would hold tightly to that mental image of her smile for the years to come, he promised himself.

The whoosh of the sliding doors opening broke Rang's trance. Grudgingly turning away from Sergeant Wren, Rang faced the doorway. In walked Sergeant Priest. The mere sight of his blood-red Mandalorian armor instantly set Rang's mood down a few pegs.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Priest said without preamble, smacking the side of Rang's temple. Rang kept his body as still as a rock for the oncoming reprimand. "Trying to con the Fett boy, breaking protocol to steal a _flower_ of all things, and trying to swoon a woman twice your age?" Priest set the emptiness of his visor inches away from Rang's. All Rang could see now was a black void. "I would say that I'm proud of you if it weren't for the fact that you _got caught_."

"Dred," Apma said, now grimacing, "there's no need to raise your hand on the poor boy."

"It's the only way he'll learn," Sergeant Priest sneered.

"There are alternative means to chastise him."

"My way is better."

Sergeant Wren coughed again, intentionally this time. "You two can have your 'my way is better' argument somewhere else." Wren cut out another slice of cake. "B'arin, thanks for the dinner. It was delicious. Rang, thanks for the presents. They were sweet. Dred, get the hell out. I don't like you."

Priest shrugged. "I have better things I'd rather be doing right now anyway." He spun around and marched out the door. Rang wordlessly followed his lead. Rang followed his sergeant all the way to the outside where the storm had worsened. Heavy, howling winds were making the flood of rain even worse. Sergeant Priest didn't appear to be bothered by the weather, so Rang followed his example.

"There are times when you should show your hand," Sergeant Priest said on the helmet radio since the winds were too deafening, "to boast your strength so that your enemies know not to underestimate you, but there other times when it is better to carry yourself with a sense of subtlety." A momentary silent pause filled the comm. "Discretion is the better part of valor. We will discuss the definition of 'valor' another time, but remember these words. Learn them. Live them. Thrive in them."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Rang blurted out, mostly by the skin of his teeth. He had to be a little more careful with selecting his words and phrases when directly speaking to Sergeant Priest.

"You won't be going to bed tonight unpunished," Sergeant Priest continued. "For the rest of today, you will be training with another regiment, and you will not rest until you are told to."

Rang didn't quite like the sound of his sergeant's tone. He sounded… playful? No, not playful. More like… amused. The sergeant sounded amused like how Double-Four sounds amused when Double-Four jokes to himself.

RC clone and _Cuy'val Dar_ sergeant made their stop at another platform, one at a higher altitude than most of the buildings' heights, that was being pelted with plenty of rain and gusts of wind. A few dozen RCs were lined up and standing at attention, and another Mandalorian stood in front of the flock with her arms folded over one another.

This Mandalorian had golden armor, too, like Sergeant Wren's, but this one had a yellow kama draped around her waist. She twisted her neck to see Rang and Priest loom toward her. Priest outstretched his arms widely and embraced the feminine-looking Mandalorian.

"I have another naughty boy that needs to relearn his place in the universe," Rang heard Priest say on the radio. The sergeant must have kept his line open because he wanted the clone to hear this. "Do you have room for one more?"

"Who else is going to teach him the laws of the land?" Isabet Reau replied. Rang's knees went weak at the sound of her voice, but he kept himself stable and steady. "Go rest, _cyar'ika_. You deserve it. I will show the boy his place."

"You are always a dear, Issy. Thank you." Reau and Priest let their foreheads touch for a moment before detaching from each other. Priest gave Rang one last judging look before leaving. Reau ogled Rang with a once-over.

"Do you have anything to say for your disobedience?" Reau asked, and Rang felt the chills runs through his shoulders yet again.

"These are people," Rang finally said after contemplating what words he should say, "who wander through the world shouting, 'Kill me.' And there's always somebody ready to oblige."

Sergeant Reau burst into laughter! She threw her head back and motioned to clutch her sides! Immediate success!

That phrase Rang used was from a vid Frog had pilfered off the Kaminoan black market. Rang should ask Frog for a copy of that vid to gift to Sergeant Reau. He probably shouldn't tell Frog who he intends to bring that gift to, though. Frog didn't like Sergeant Reau all that much.

"Your one of _those_ boys Dred likes to keep around, huh?" Reau said after finishing her fit of snickers. She put a hand on Rang's shoulder and pulled him toward the crowd of RCs. "Get in line. We're all going to be having some fun tonight."

Sergeant Wren's smile would forever grace Rang's heart, but the way Sergeant Reau spoke to him made his moral skyrocket tenfold.

The training was probably going to be painful in someway somehow, but as long as he could envision a lady's touch guiding his way, he can accept it.


	5. Live Studio Audience

The Killing House on Kamino is like a Republic Commando's second home away from home.

The first home away from home, which is Double-Four's favorite home, is the medbay. Oh, Double-Four is confident clone troopers have had bad enough injuries with their own training, but _Cuy'val Dar_ drill sergeants like to play extreme roughhouse with their boys all the time. In Double-Four's experience, Commandos wake up lying on a medical gurney more often than they do lying in their own bed cots, and the gurneys are certainly more comfortable and heart-warming in comparison.

But the second home away from home had that vigorous, spiritual energy and adrenaline that drugs and painkillers just can't cut. Sure, the live ammo was as likely to kill you as the booby traps, and dozens of squads lost dozens of brothers over the years in the Killing House, but in the words of one of Rang's favorite phrases, "No pain, no gain." And there is a lot to gain in a place that's named after death and murder.

That's how most of the wars that Dred Priest fought in were won, through death and murder. So, with how much ease Dred poses with when he talks about those wars, there must be something to especially enjoy in the messy kill-y bits of war. There must be something truly enticing about those bits to go to bed with.

Double-Four's brother, Frog, gave an obnoxious, noisy sigh and refused to make eye contact. "Can you just get to the punchline already?" Frog asked.

Waggling his index finger in front of Frog's face, Double-Four chided, "Anything worth flaunting about deserves a good buildup. That goes for jokes, too, brother Frog."

"But your jokes suck. They always suck. There's nothing worth flaunting about them."

From a room about two doors down in the grey, colorless hallway, another of Double-Four's brothers shouted out, "Now who's the villain, Frog? Now who's the villain?!"

Double-Four elbowed Frog's abdomen. "See? Rang's on my side on this. He likes my jokes."

A jittering crackle echoed on the Sigma Squad comm link. "Squad," said the squad leader, "only communicate with each other on the helmet comm."

Frog's and Double-Four's shoulders respectively slumped in dismay. Double-Four blinked rapidly, nodding in satisfaction as the specs in his HUD confirmed that no noise with escape his helmet except via the comm. "Anyway, as I was saying… second home away from home."

The two Commandos kneeled before a mutilated control panel with small sparks periodically bursting out and splattering harmlessly off the clones' armor. Frog fiddled with the panel in an attempt to open up the coinciding door. Double-Four kept his eyes on both ends of the corridor. One end was barricaded with random desks, chairs, and whatever generic furniture the training sergeants placed in the Killing House. The other end was littered with combat droid body parts and discarded blasters.

In the other room, Bev and Rang were handling a hack on some high-security terminal. Orders for this training op were initially pretty straightforward: eliminate all hostiles inside the facility. Sigma was going with basic search and destroy tactic until an update was sent in. Now, the squad was on the lookout for an "artifact" of some sort. That meant a search and recovery tactic had to be used, which was an exponentially slower process than search and destroy. Thus, Double-Four decided now was a good a time as any to develop a good joke.

"And now that we've established how the Killing House is our second home away from home," Double-Four said, "that means we'd need a third heart to put in it."

Frog's groan of irritation was unsurprising, but it nonetheless offended Double-Four. "What are you talking about?" Frog muttered.

"Well, the actual home is our barracks. Remember that time of the blackout?"

"The one the Nulls caused?"

"No, the one Sergeant Priest caused." Double-Four noted how Frog's shoulders froze perfectly still for a single second before he gave a shudder that lasted half a second. Perfect. "You know the one that I'm talking about. Mahone Squad and Bolshoi Squad couldn't get out of their pods in time. Drowned from a lack of air. Now, they're off sleeping with the birdies."

"Of course I remember them," Frog snapped. "What do they have to do with hearts?"

"And the first home away from home," Double-Four continued ignoring Frog's outburst, "the medbay – well, brothers die there every other week. We've got plenty of hearts there already."

"What do dead bodies and hearts have to do with homes?"

"Don't you know? As one of Rang's stolen words of wisdom would say, home is where the heart is. Your home is your territory. You need something to mark your territory with, hence the heart."

The doors finally opened up with a swift swooshing sound. Frog looked into the room, stared, and then quickly averted his gaze.

"You have a sick mind, Double-Four," Frog snarled, siting his back against the wall and shaking his head. _What a wuss_ , Double-Four secretly thought to himself, _I know that it looks gruesome, but at least you can't smell it._

"Hey, it's not my fault the old Dred likes to leave dead bodies in the Killing House." Double-Four pressed two of his fingers against the top of the entranceway. There were two narrow depressions on the metal where his fingers fit snugly inside. The Killing House's rooms and hallways were regularly placed and connected differently on a periodic basis to make each training exercise unique and unpredictable, but some scars and damages were overlooked and remained permanently on certain rooms. "Brother Bovine told me to look for the doors with the claw marks. It took a dozen squads to take down that alien thing back in the day, but take it down they did. Of course, Lennon Squad didn't make it, but on the bright side, we've got some free hearts to make the House all the more homely."

Frog glanced into the room again and immediately turned away. "What kind of home is this?"

"And that, brother Frog, is the punchline."

Usually, Double-Four would have gone into a fit of laughter after hitting his punchline, but since the squad was still on the helmet comm, he made sure to bite his tongue. Hard. Very hard. Just not hard enough to draw blood. Mij Gilamar hated it when Double-Four strolled into his medbay because of self-induced bleeding tongues, and Double-Four didn't really like inciting hatred out of one of his favorite _Cuy'val Dar_ fellows.

Rang's voice rang out on the comm. "Wipe the window. Hang the freshener. Let's go."

Bev's voice followed a moment after. "We have two possible locations for where the artifact is. Frog, Double-Four, go to command center on the top floor. Rang and I will regroup with you soon." Double-Four heard the faint boom of a small, mostly contained explosion from the other room. Sigma Squad's better half must be cutting through the ventilation system. Double-Four would have suggested to Frog that they do the same. However, Frog looked just enough of a downer that the orange-armored Commando let the green-and-white armored Commando lead the way through the grey corridors.

Not much happened on their way to the command center. Most of the combat droids were already dead or disabled, as were plenty of the booby traps. Frog stayed silent on the comm, and Double-Four let his brother have that small victory. There would be time for better jokes later, once they regrouped with Rang and Bev. Bev was usually a killjoy when it came to Double-Four's jokes, but at least Rang always laughed in his own special way. Frog was decent bloke but also a horrible critic, Double-Four would need to work harder next time.

The command center was a bland, grey, and uninteresting room, much like the rest of the facility. Consoles with buttons and hologram displayers were littered throughout. Frog quickly went to one console and started tapping buttons. Wide windows lined two of the walls to give a good view of the small expanse of white skyscrapers across the horizon and meaningless firefights on the streets below.

Double-Four stood guard near the entrance while Frog handled the hacking business. Tech-savvy jobs were doable, of course, but they were never as fun as assignments of the physiological or medicinal persuasions.

Speaking of medicinal persuasions, when Double-Four was positive Frog wouldn't be looking over his shoulder, Double-Four slipped his fingers into one of his belt compartments. He held two pint-sized tablets that each sported a light khaki color. Lifting his helmet to expose his chin, Double-Four downed the tablets with a forceful gulp. In an instant, the smile on his face no longer had to be forced.

"I think I found the artifact!" Frog yelled with the childlike enthusiasm he had been slowly losing with each passing day. He still had some of that fighting spirit, though, and as the center of the floor opened up, Frog was practically ecstatic as he rushed to the metallic container that rose from the hidey hole.

"Well, well, well," Double-Four said, letting the lighthearted tone that danced on his lips settle in. He patted Frog on the back. "I guess it's time to prove a theory that's been bothering me for too, too, ta-ta-too long."

"What?"

Frog's confusion made Double-Four want to give him a brotherly hug. Instead, he gave the container a good kick so it slid in Frog's direction. "The theory: claustrophobic people actually are supposed to be more productive when they're thinking outside of the box. You're claustrophobic – very resistant to your fears, but still fearful nonetheless – so get on stirring up a plan to break into the box."

"B-But I'm not claustrophobic."

"You get jumpy enough in confined spaces to make it look like you are. Now, get to it."

Though Frog did nothing to hide his irritation, he did his job diligently. He deactivated the electronic locks and got the top cover of the box removed within minutes.

"Good job, _Frog'ika_." Double-Four shouldered his brother so that Frog tumbled to the side, giving Double-Four ample space to look inside the contents of the box. "So what did old Dred decide to use for the… the artifact…"

Double-Four reached his hand into the box and pulled out a slim, silver rod. It was about as long as his forearm. The bottom of the rod was black with flaky bits hanging off it, as if an extension of the rod had been unceremoniously cut off and was never repaired. The top end had a round opening. A tiny red button was on the side of the rod, and Double-Four tapped his pinky finger on it.

A slender beam of crimson-white light burst out of the rod's circular opening. Double-Four held the rod so the sliver of light was nearly touching his visor. The red glow was familiar and comforting yet foreign and bewildering at the same time. This wasn't the first time Double-Four experienced these feelings all at once. Names, ideas, and phrases he was introduced to during flash training and then encountered in real life often brought about these emotions.

Frog's flabbergasted gasp broke Double-Four's trance. Frog was pointing at the artifact with a shaky hand. "Wh-Wh-Why? Why do you have that? Why did Priest put that here? That's a light – a lightsaber! Those things are dangerous. Only Jedi are allowed to wield them. Why did he –"

"Relax your _shebs_ , brother Frog." Honestly, the kid can get unreasonably frightened for the tiniest of reasons. Then again, that was part of the reason why Double-Four loved him. "I think I remember this. Old Dred showed this to us when we first met him." Double-Four found more buttons on the side of the saber handle and fiddled with them. "I didn't know it was a red lightsaber. I don't remember many Jedi using red lasers in the flash training. Red's kinda an angry, aggressive color that would clash with a smooth, serene Jedi, wouldn't it?"

"I don't – I don't know." Frog seemed to get over this hour's existential crisis faster than usual. His breathing relaxed as he contacted their squad mates. "Bev, Rang, this is Frog. We found a lightsaber. It is highly likely that this is the artifact."

"Copy that," Bev's voice responded. "Rang and I found nothing of value. Hold your position. We are coming to you."

"Affirmative." Just as Frog cut off his connection, Double-Four slammed the saber into the floor. Sparks scattered wildly. "What the hell are you doing?" Frog hissed.

"I'm messing with the settings," Double-Four replied. He pressed more buttons. "I wanna use this, but I have to make sure I don't accidentally maim anyone, or anything, beyond repair."

"Are you crazy?"

Double-Four gave Frog a pointed look.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. Why do I even ask?"

Frog shrieked, almost deafening Double-Four through the helmet comm. Frog's entire body was absolutely still before he twitched and then plopped to the floor. He held his right wrist protectively against his chest. His right hand lay a few feet away.

"Why would you do that?" Frog cried out, but Double-Four didn't see why he should be complaining. None of them were unfamiliar to pain. Granted, none of Sigma Squad ever had one of their hands chopped off from a lightsaber, but it was a learning experience! For all of them! Frog gets to learn how to live without his natural dominant hand, and Double-Four gets the satisfaction of cutting up someone with a laser sword. Everyone wins!

"The stub's instantly cauterized," Double-Four, sliding the back of his hand across Frog's forehead, cooed to the incapacitated clone, "and I've got plenty of stims to keep you alive until we can get you a skeletal robot hand with synthetic skin! Now, just relax, Froggy boy. Relax. Relax… Hush little baby, don't sound a peep. Big bro's buying you a brand new jeep."

It was Double-Four's personal reimagining of a lullaby he's heard one training sergeant sing to their troops. Frog seemed to like the original version, so Double-Four wanted to regale him with a new spin on it

Frog's kick that shoved Double-Four halfway through the room shocked him more than he's willing to admit.

"What is wrong with you?!" Frog screamed, crawling away to lean against a control console. "You don't just cut off a brother's hand like it doesn't even _kriffing_ matter!"

Double-Four picked himself up, careful not to hit anything with the lightsaber blade, and spread his arms widely. "Come now, brother Frog. There's no need for this hysteria. Besides, don't you know a perfect opportunity when it strips down right before you? This is one such opportunity. Do you know what alien frogs say to each other? _Ro_ -bot. _Ro_ -bot."

" _Usen'ye_ , you _demagolka_!" Ah, man, now Frog was just being horribly harsh with dishing out the _Mando'a_ insults. Double-Four would never inflict such offensive language to him, unless if it was the name of a good joke.

Wincing at another one of Frog's pain-filled whimpers, Double-Four brought out another pair of sandy brown tablets. "I think someone needs to start taking some of his newly prescribed happy pills! Doctor's orders."

Rang's voice rang out on the comm again. "Doctor, doctor, give me the news."

Wait, that wasn't from the comm.

"I got a bad case of loving you!" Double-Four turned his head. Bev stood by the doorway with his rifle pointing to the floor. Rang had his blaster trained on Double-Four but the view of his visor on Frog. "That's it. No more mister knife guy."

"No, no, no" Double-Four countered, " _yes_ mister knife guy! There are all sorts of knife attachments you can put on a cybernetic hand!"

Bev spoke. "You mutilated Frog's hand," he said, and Double-Four quickly swallowed the tablets in his hands to maintain his smile.

"I'mma get him a new one!"

"You used Dred Priest's lightsaber to remove Frog's right hand."

"Yes sir I did just do that thing that you just said, sir! Ain't the lightsaber pretty cool?"

"You took away his hand."

"Yes. Yes I did. We've established that already, and I have no regrets."

Bev thrust a fist into Double-Four's throat. Double-Four's hold on the lightsaber gave out. The glow disappeared as Bev caught the handle. The team medic coughed desperately, leaning on a holoprojector to support himself.

"Double-Four, you took Frog's hand away from him," Bev repeated. "You had no right to do that."

"I'm just trying to help him!" Double-Four defended himself. "Frog needs to grow a spine – a cybernetic spine, ideally, and a cybernetic hand is th-the first step."

Bev activated the lightsaber. The red glare blended with the red of his armor. He held the blade inches away from Double-Four's neck.

For the first time in a long time, Double-Four feared for his life.

"Oh, the humanity," Rang said as he moved to look over Frog, who was still wallowing lowly in barely contained agony. Tears must be staining his cheeks and drenched the inner layers of his helmet by now.

Finally, Bev shut the saber off. He tossed the rod of metal in the air and caught it by the hilt. He offered it up to Double-Four, inciting the latter to release a sigh of relief.

"Take the saber for however long Dred Priest lets you have it," Bev said, and Double-Four snatched the lightsaber without hesitation. "Now, fix your mistakes."

"Of course!" Double-Four hopped over to Frog, but Rang pushed him away.

"A loaded God complex," Rang said, holding up Frog reassuringly, "cock it and pull it."

"Keep him away from me," Frog moaned into Rang's collar bone. "Just keep him away from me."

Double-Four felt a pain in his heart. Did Frog truly not understand that this entire affair was merely how Double-Four wanted to show his love to his dearest brothers? Did he really not get it?

"I will cover our six," Bev said, readying his blaster. "Double-Four, take point. Keep the artifact safe. We go, now."

For extra good measure, Double-Four ingested the rest of his Giggledust tablets he had left on him. Once his toothy grin was frozen in place on his face, Double-Four holstered the saber, double-checked his ammo count, and did as he was told.

Double-Four cares about Sigma Squad. He does. He just has to figure out how to better show that to his brothers.


End file.
